the republic of innocence, a poem . . . and your Wednesday Writing Prompt


no mendacity in the natural world, just an
untamed grace in the meditative industry of ants,
in the peaceable company of small creatures
going about the business of food finding
and mating and homemaking in the loam of
this province, the republic of innocence

here is the satisfying beauty of sunrise, of
jacaranda as she paints joy on a blue dawn;
robin with russet-hued breast hunts for worms,
her instinctive motherhood proud of babies
 in
the spar and scrap of nest life; it is in this,
the guileless cosmosthat gentle breezes

dance with us on muddy travels down
rocky paths through meadow and brush;
as the flaxen sun shifts from rise to fall,
we pulse with love and fear, soon
we know, clouds will gray with the dark

the golden moon will show craggy depths
sooty with doubt and danger, humanity
projecting its own shadows; still, a certain
trust in nature’s homilies, content in this
province where we’re left to be ourselves, left
to write our wildness on the mirror of time

© 2018, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved

“How near to good is what is wild.” Henry David Thoreau


WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT

Tell us how near to good and honest is that which is untamed in ourselves. Leave your poem or a link to it in the comments section below.  All poems shared on theme will be published next Tuesday. You have until Monday 8:30 pm to respond.  If it is your first time responding to a writing prompt here, please send a brief bio and photo to thepoetbyday@gmail.com.  It will be featured along with your poem/s by way of introduction to readers … and me! 🙂


ABOUT THE POET BY DAY

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Heads-up poets and poetry lovers in Hamilton Ontario and surrounding area: Save the Date


 

MICHAEL DICKEL a poet, fiction writer, and photographer, has taught at various colleges and universities in Israel and the United States. Dickel’s writing, art, and photographs appear in print and online. His poetry has won international awards and been translated into several languages. His chapbook, Breakfast at the End of Capitalism came out from Locofo Chaps in 2017. Is a Rose Press released his most recent full-length book (flash fiction), The Palm Reading after The Toad’s Garden, in 2016. Previous books: War Surrounds Us, Midwest / Mid-East, and The World Behind It, Chaos… He co-edited Voices Israel Volume 36(2010). He was managing editor for arc-23 and arc-24. With producer / director David Fisher, he received an NEH grant to write a film script about Yiddish theatre. He is the former chair of the Israel Association of Writers in English. Meta/ Phor(e) /Play is Michael’s blogZine Michael on Social Media: Twitter | FaceBook Page | Instagram | Academia  Michael is also an a member of The BeZine core team.

“Corpse Watcher” … and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt


As always I am fascinated by how varied are the responses and interpretations of a given prompt, in this case Ms. Weary’s Blues, January 24No newcomers took up the challenge this time round but we have engaging – even intriguing – responses from Colin Blundell, bogpan, Paul Brooks, Kakali Das Ghosh, Renee Espriu, Sheila Jacob, Sonia Benskin Mesher and Anjum Wasim Dar.  Thanks to these intrepid and talented poets for coming out to play.

Please join us tomorrow for the next prompt. All are welcome no matter the status of career: novice, emerging or pro. It’s about showcasing your work, getting to know other poets and exercising the writing muscle. Meanwhile, enjoy these poems   …


there’s one way

and another way
and a third way
of doing things; but it’s useful
to think of doing things

‘otherwise’ as the Master said in line with
what (gazing at the bridge of his nose)
his grandmother told him:
viz ‘in life never do as others do;

either do nothing—
just go to school—or do something
nobody else does’
when she promptly died…

this my children
and my children’s children
is what I would have you
take inside your uttermost being:

never go along with the herd;
never copy others; let your uprush
of learning be your very own
never dependent on others

Note: The Master = GIGurdjieff

(from my ‘The Recovery of Wonder’ 2013)

© 2013, Colin Blundell  (Colin Blundell, All and Everything)


blue

and not to eternity the predefined will happen accidently
but to a cry
unheard and clear and the sermon that will BE
to shelter the torn off grains in the summer
the sunspots priest in the reflections
of the water
in blue

© 2018, bogpan Bozhidar Pangelov – (bogpan – блог за авторска поезия)


Corpse Watcher

He tells me he watches corpses
and looks forward to mine.

Its the stillness, and sometimes
If you’re lucky the movement.

Only chemical but shocks.
I like the shocks.

© 2018, Paul Brookes  (The Wombwell Rainbow, Inspiration, History, Imagination)

Sunblaze

Sunblaze drinks thee pint as it were after doing thee a favour, stop thee brain box from wondering

an thy art beholden to it for doing so. Then mizzle sets on tummeling down, drizzles like it were making gourmet dish of the day with attractive swirls.

And ice cold thinks you owes it a living, serrates your bones like a decent knife sharp butcher

Who knows which cut hurts most and where to prolong the wound so it slowly bleeds out a sunset.

© 2018, Paul Brookes  (The Wombwell Rainbow, Inspiration, History, Imagination)

Suddenly The

Sky opened and closed
Earth darkened and glowered.
Ocean frittered and wittered.
Air garnered and hoary.

Child across the earth.
Teenagers stretch clouds.
Adults narrow seascape.
Aged pinpoint gust.

Travellers are still.
Homely explore vastness.
Refugees carry home.
Ghosts are solid once more.

© 2018, Paul Brookes  (The Wombwell Rainbow, Inspiration, History, Imagination)

The Book

When born he opened
The Book Of Everything
that had all the questions.

It was too much so he skimmed
chapters that didn’t seem relevant
until much much later in the book.

Later in life he closed
The book of nothing
That had all the answers

because it was too much effort,
to find his glasses put somewhere safe.

© 2018, Paul Brookes  (The Wombwell Rainbow, Inspiration, History, Imagination)


#Lost My Blues #

Blues ,my measly blues pursued me
Emerging from the bottom of that grave gorge
Surging from the waves of that deep ocean
Sprouting from the storm of that black forest
Blues ,those insistent blues
never waved to me a song ,a farewell song
And followed me unto rocky mountains and flowing rivulets
Chased me to red plateaus
and dusty desserts
Halted I -where golden beams reflected from a broken mirror
Where a phoenix arose from its ashes
Where pearly rains oozed from a misty cloud
And where a scarlet dandelion peeped from a rocky chest
And by my astonishment
I lost my blues ……….
Footsteps of my measly blues —-

© 2018, Kakali Das Ghosh


Silver Threads of Nature

I will leave you the peace in my soul
that will find you in the love of my heart

for I will leave you the memories shared
whether joyous dancing on the stage of life
or sadness fading in the shadows of day

for life has woven me a colorful garment
with silver threads of nature’s wisdom

that has hollowed out a place for you
where warm you will be in the sun’s embrace
followed by the path of a starlit moon

within which voices will sing in stardust
to lull you to sleep at the end of each day

where always you will wake to bird song
within which you will hear my voice true
giving you the peace within my soul
surrounded by the love within my heart

© 2018, Renee Espriu  (Renee Just Turtle Flight and Inspiration, Imagination & Creativity with Wings, Haibun, AR, Haiku & Haiga)


Rites of passage

To you,earth,I leave my ashes.

To you,sky,my unfinished dreams.

To you, ocean, blown kisses.

And to you, wide world,
the very best of me
warm and alive.

Two daughters, one son,
already entrusted
when I birthed them years

ago into your light,
heard their first startled cries
on a March morning,

an August night, in May’s
early hours; watched
the midwife lift each

perfect body still plaited
to mine, gift-wrapped
and glistening with my blood.

© 2018, Sheila Jacob


. we too shall die .

we have a memory or two. the world goes dark, we teach and learn, wait for light to appear

it is the way of things, while there are birds. while you read, you will not understand all words, that is the way of things.

it is natural, it is what they do, they live in the wild. . we have no power, they, no disgust that reels and kicks. yet while small birds live, they too will die. like us.

drift. in air, in words. symbols of poetry, cut and pasted. literally. naturally .

everyday tiny things sing.

when some small birds have failed and gone others sound just the same.

touched by the small things, softly, we drew

together

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher (Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA and Sonja’s Drawings)

: side parting :

looking for a legacy

i find nothing / no words

no comfortable leavings

parting on the wrong side

can be painful

some hide secrets

i do not

we hope you will feel good

about pins

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher (Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA and Sonja’s Drawings)


             Light is neither matter nor myth
         it is The Only Truth 
in moments when engulfed is the spirit
with warmth unseen, who makes existence
tremble and shiver?  as beads moist appear
 from nowhere, soon to transform
 one to coolness…doors of sight
half shut, flipping up and down, 
‘reach out, a voice calls
you hear, ‘help me,  oh please, help,
I can’t see, it is so dark and 

I am so weak, ‘heat ‘dark heat, go …
put on some Light’ O Light’
Light Upon Light’ 
 
blues surround as blackness shifts, is it
going to lift or grow less? am I awake ?
or sinking, or rising, ascending into
more darkness…darkness before being
and darkness after? I am not aware…
my being is being created, in fluids unseen
I have no voice, nor breath, it is not Death?
I float and swim, it is so dark…
 
put on some Light’ O Light’
Light Up The Light’ 
 
who do I call? who will hear?
Who will come near? who will bear
the pain and make me well again?
It is The Light The Truth The Unseen One
that is the Character, No Myth or Matter
Look up , it is day…it is full of Light
Look up, it is night, it is bejeweled with Light
Light Upon Light ‘ and The Book is Bright
 
and when I once was, in the blues
I did not know what would be
listless weak  helpless was the spirit
in me, would I be? or would I be no more?
doors of sight dimly saw the “saline drip”  bag
drop by drop, drip drip,dropped the drops
would it be dark soon? or ..as I lay…slowly
darkness flew away, brightness made its way

before I knew , brighter it grew till I
 could bear no more
Light it was Light all over me, Light
Upon Light Upon Light, it did stay
till my heaviness was light and
 my blues faded away, away far away
 
Light the Healer, Light is Blue, see the sky?
up high or see the sea  below
layer upon layer, vast boundless in view
why blue is the color of peace?
Celeste Marion is painted in this hue’
tis holy and sacred and true’
To have hope is good to pray is best
chose the good blue, but be not in the blues’
 
Light Upon Light is the Ultimate Truth
Turn towards it to be out of darkness
Be Guided, out of fear, out of all ‘fright’ 
what I leave behind and what I may take
the good deeds I do the joy I make
the help I give the needs I fulfill and all
what for the Lord I share…for Life is a test
and to be grateful is the rest
I will go for ‘life is a journey not
a destination’ …from darkness to 
illumination…

ABOUT THE POET BY DAY

A Name Painted in Blue, a poem by U.K. poet Tony Frisby


I appreciate the sentiment of the intro and poem and they are shared here with Tony’s permission. How nice to learn in the process of acquiring consent to publish that Tony has several self-published collections and a ninety-four page epic poem, Me, ME and Not Me, was published by Waterloo Press, 2014. / J.D.

How to find the right balance in a poem? How to deal poetically with the worst that mankind can inflict on itself yet at the same time avoid the accusation of voyeurism? And yet the worst must be told…

And so with the latest news that yet another boat-load of refugees from Africa has floundered in the Mediterranean I’ve revisited a poem in which I blame the innocent sea for a piece of wreckage… but, but, but …… what I’m really trying to say is that some part of me understands completely that screaming figure in Munch’s great work of art. Tony

A Name Painted in Blue

Gathering wood is easy after a storm.
Bits and pieces always litter the tide-line
and sometimes an enormous plank
or a stout tree stump will swell the heap

’til theres enough for a bonfire.
But now and then you’ll find something
that makes you shudder: a splintered oar,
a piece of decking, maybe a strip of ship’s timber

with a name painted in blue.
It’s at times like these you might hear the waves
chuckle to one another, or the wind
snickering amongst the rock-pools.

© 2018, poem, illustration and portrait (below), Tony Frisby, All rights reserved


Tony Frisby

TONY FRISBY was born in Ireland and lives now in England. Tony began writing poetry as a hobby in 2000. Soon afterwards, he started reading his work in public. By 2010, Tony had self-published five volumes of poetry all of which were voted ‘Book of the Week’ by The Brighton Argus. In 2014, his ninety-four page epic poem Me, ME and Not Me, was published by Waterloo Press. His latest collection That Blue Pause was published in 2017. He is working on three further collections. Tony’s Amazon UK page and Amazon US page.


ABOUT THE POET BY DAY